


Rosey Waters

by Origingirl



Series: A Flickering Sun [4]
Category: Magi: Adventure of Sinbad (Anime), Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, This poor man needs to pop a xanax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Origingirl/pseuds/Origingirl
Summary: What is a King to a God?  In Focalor's eyes, his king is the Sun itself—all-consuming, warm, but possesses the potential for destructive behavior. But Sinbad wouldn't ever hurt anyone. He'd never think of causing a single, living soul any form of despair—except for himself.
Relationships: Focalor/Sinbad (Magi)
Series: A Flickering Sun [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389592
Kudos: 15





	1. Right In Front Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's not necessary to read the other works a part of this series to enjoy this one, but doing so will add to the reading experience you'll have here.

Before even entering the bathhouse, he saw the light and steam seeping from the cracks between door and wall. The steam is particularly thick this time around, casting a translucent sheen above him, occasionally blocking his view of the night stars as he approached the door. ‘Good’, he thought to himself. ‘That means the water's extra hot,’ which is exactly what he needs right now. Only the most scorching water could have any hope of melting off dreary woes accumulated within this past month.

Directly adjacent to the back of the palace, the royal bathhouse was constructed as an octagonal floor plan, sporting eight black granite columns gilded with intricate geometrical designs that surrounded the main bathing pool. This same design continued on the pastel landscape mosaics that adorned the walls, coming together to create a space that served no other purpose than to aid those seeking blissful relaxation. 

Even so, Sinbad doubted he’d have any luck achieving anything resembling bliss.

Just a month prior, Alibaba, Morgiana, Prince Hakuryuu, and Aladdin all set out to conquer the goals each had set for themselves. In their absence followed a quietness that did not make Sinbad feel at ease. It wasn’t the lack of friendly joyous company so much as it was a lingering thread in his mind associated with the events of their last major battle. Sinbad has never been superstitious, and any odd feelings he’s had about any given person or place or topic in the past normally came to fruition. It’s helped him greatly in preparing for less-than-desirable encounters before, so the fact that his mind is warning him about this silence is worrisome to say the least.

Never forgetting the past that forged his present self, this reminded him very much of the calm before a massive storm just beyond the horizon—the line of foresight. The unease he and his crew had felt prickling their skin with goosebumps in the midst of an eerie calm preceding a raging monster of wind and sea… his gut likened this present moment very much to that.

There would be no soothing this aura of deathly quiet dread if past examples tipped him off to anything, but… oh, at least he could try to relax his tense back and shoulders and neck if not his mind. Jafar wouldn’t let him off the hook regarding self-care if he didn’t.

Upon opening the door to the bathhouse, his face felt immediately exfoliated, hit with waves and waves of steam that rolled out and into the night air. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, Sinbad begrudgingly stripped and sunk into the lavender and rose-infused pool. It wasn’t that he hated water or baths or anything like that. He simply struggled to let go of the thought that this would be useless in the long run—a mere bath not able to cleanse the mind as it does the body.

The heat did feel nice, though.

At the same time, he is here alone, and anytime a vacancy of space surrounded him, he felt helpless as his subconscious thoughts made themselves known by filling that space.

**_Devious._**

The word plagued him ever since the night Jafar had admitted how he’d felt about his king in earnest. 

Then, a flash of dripping red eyes and slick white fangs. 

Sinbad flushed fondly at the memory. 

The last time he had been caught in a pit of self-loathing, somehow it had been potent enough that Focalor had felt it within his metal vessel and came out to reassure his king that, while he may indeed have had a personality change over the years, it did not reflect him wholly as a person—that the curse did not reflect who he was; who he is.

And _reassure_ him he did.

It was the safest Sinbad had felt in a long time. Sinbad said a multitude of things to the djinn that night that he wouldn’t have to any other… except for Jafar, maybe. He couldn’t explain to himself why, but Focalor in particular—out of all the djinns he has forged a bond with—always looked at him with a certain sparkle in his rich ochre eyes and spoke to him with a distinct, hopeful, carefree ring in his tone. This had eventually led to something very very different than what an expected bond between djinn and king looks like.

Sinking down to his neck in the water, Sinbad sighed warmly at the memory—the exact moment when their once ‘normal’ bond morphed into that very very different something——

✭

Life had finally come to a peaceful plateau a few months after the construction of Sindria had been completed. As Sinbad always recalled, Focalor had shown particular interest in watching his king’s dream come to fruition since the beginning. Initially, this interest was born from sheer boredom on Focalor’s end; he was tired of dwelling in a dungeon for what seemed like an eternity. Sinbad’s quest would at least provide some form of entertainment.

Plus, the djinn admitted to himself upon first meeting the man as an adolescent that he had a particular flame to his aura. He was relentless in his pursuit if his already accumulated djinns were anything to go by.

So Focalor followed him, submitting to Sinbad, recognizing him as his sovereign king. And before he realized it, Sinbad had actually achieved all he set out for. All that had been left was to build the country where his allies and friends could take up residence—becoming the driving force of world-changing prosperity.

One night when Sindria was particularly young, Yunnan of all people paid the freshly appointed king a visit to congratulate him after years of hard work. Sinbad had thanked him warmly, despite an air of grave hesitance that flickered around the magi, before offering for him to stay the night after such a long journey. That night, rukh was plentiful as a result of Yunnan’s presence on the island that is Sindria, so much so Sinbad could feel his metal vessels vibrating against his neck, wrists, and fingers. Sinbad then thought, as he stared aimlessly out across his country—his home—of what a certain feather-haired djinn would have to say to him now that his goals had come to fruition. 

As if he’d spoken the command in his head for only Focalor to hear, said djinn materialized in full on the roof with his king. His dark ochre eyes were instantly met with the sight of rooftops of homes and markets filled with prospering, happy lives.

Sinbad wouldn’t lie to himself. He did (rightfully so in his opinion) sport a gloating grin, looking at Focalor’s awestruck expression with shameless amusement.

During the time it took to compile the assets needed to forge a country, the duo fought off many who opposed Sinbad’s view of the future. Each time, Focalor could not ignore the titanium resolve burning within each vein—within each cell of the human man’s body. 

It only took three battles with Focalor equipped for the djinn to sincerely recognize Sinbad as a candidate worth the title of _King_. After which, he began to notice he and his candidate weren’t all that different in terms of quirks and mannerisms. Oddly enough, something happened that surprised Focalor; he felt as if he was staring into a mirror each time he thought of Sinbad, of his golden eyes that shine like the sun.

And then their bond became stronger, their battles more synchronized than ever before—a humorous adoration for one another flourishing and fueling Sinbad’s already existing drive for a better world.

And it _completely_ went over their heads when the humorous adoration became plain, earnest adoration. Nothing funny about it. Neither noticed this developing change until the moment when a _real, tangible_ change occurred.

And that exact change happened unbeknownst to all of Sindria atop those moonlit rooftops that very night.

The air was brisk, making the balcony railing of Sinbad’s quarters ice cold. The two let what seems like a century pass over them as they gazed out across the country that, in an outstanding feat of efficiency, took far less than a lifetime to build. Sinbad remembers how warm his djinn’s smile was in contrast with the weather. 

“I’d _like_ to say I’m not surprised, but I’d be lying.” Focalor had said then, looking into his king’s eyes with an intense heat that could rival freshly erupted magma. Being able to _legitimately, physically_ look at his king had been mesmerizing. The last time Focalor _looked_ at Sinbad was _years_ back in his dungeon treasure room.

He had been relieved to see the same fire in those boyish sun-kissed eyes; they held the same fire that had stirred a pot of embers within Focalor during each interaction with his king in the past. Focalor couldn’t recall feeling something so similarly potent, even back in Alma Taran. 

**_Sinbad_**. Truly, a world class singularity.

“Entertainment is what you wanted, right? Hope I delivered.” Sinbad had jokingly responded, a warm smile on his lips as well.

_Sindria_. Here is the end result of everything Sinbad was, is, and will be. He had originally intended to rub it in Focalor’s cocky face one he reached his goal, but now, he wished to share the view of this now very real country with the djinn he had least expected to form such a strong connection with.

“You did.” Focalor had said, gliding closer to his king, taking his hand in a sudden moment of duress that the djinn couldn’t name the origin of.

Focalor had watched as his king’s eyes snapped over to him from the country’s picturesque landscape view, fixing him on the spot, making Focalor feel constricted in an unexpectedly wonderful way.

Everything about his king is wonderful.

“You’re what this world needs, I think.” Focalor had said, in nearly a whisper, these words only meant for the gorgeous man before him—the man he had the pleasure of watching grow to fit his crown, silhouetted by the full moon of that night. “I failed to see that—to believe in you—when I met you.”

“I could hardly blame you.” Sinbad had laughed, and that look was more beautiful than anything on this planet, Focalor had decided right then. “Modesty was certainly something I lacked when I conquered your dungeon. And, well…” Sinbad took his djinn’s hand in turn while moving to gently clasp his shoulder. 

“I think… the others—the other djinns—they’re different with me than you. You’ve been the one who I feel truly _sees_ me… if that makes sense.” He had chuckled. “Sure, you doubted me at first. I had no need to show my combat skills in the treasure room when conquering your dungeon as I have had to all previous dungeons. _And yet, you still went with me_. For that, I’m more grateful than you know. I don’t think I would be standing here tonight, looking out across _my country_ , if it weren’t for _your_ support. So…” Sinbad paused, focusing his gaze on that of the djinns. 

“Thanks for everything, Focalor. Truly. You… I hope you know you’re just as much a good friend to me as all my other friends are. I'm with you just as much as you are with me.”

His kind words were quickly followed by heartfelt laughter, Sinbad finding the way Focalor beamed at him with glossy eyes too adoring for words. Maybe it was the couple cups of wine he had earlier, or maybe it was the perfect starry night atmosphere. Whatever had been the cause of Sinbad’s sudden surge of pure joy, it sought to be employed at once, and Sinbad had energetically compiled by pressing his slightly chapped lips against Focalor’s ethereally smooth ocean-blue ones. 

He remembered how Focalor initially tensed out of surprise, but very quickly melted against the touch, molding his lips to fit perfectly against his king’s—his hands finding Sinbad’s hips, gently gripping them while pressing firmer against those unfairly full lips. 

He remembered how he had moved his arms to loop around Focalor’s neck, smiling into their kiss from knowing whatever feelings bubbled within him that night were returned. Sinbad knew from then on, after rising the next morning and feeling a fondness so unfamiliar yet far from unwelcomed, what he and Focalor had was something very _very_ different.

And then Focalor had backed him against the balcony and… oh Sinbad would never forget the first time Focalor’s tongue flicked against his own, the djinn holding him with a tenderness so soft it felt like he was being embraced by clouds——

✭

“Sin?” A startlingly real voice, definitely not one a part of the lovely memory he had been replaying in his head, broke the trance Sinbad found himself drifting in. The water had turned lukewarm, signaling just how long he had been sitting there daydreaming about that treasured night.

Of course, Sinbad figured, if Focalor could feel emotions of extreme sorrow radiate from his king, why wouldn’t he be able to feel positive emotions just as strong? Only this time, Sinbad was curious as to how Focalor could be sitting in the water in front of him. Now is not the season for storms. Aladdin is on another continent, and as far as he knows, Judal hasn’t made an appearance at the palace for some time.

So… how can Focalor be here without an external surplus of rukh?

As if sensing his king’s thoughts, Focalor attempted to reason with their current situation.

“I felt a sudden swell of immense joy. How is it I can feel how you feel _now_? It has never happened at any point before the… the last time.” A light blush appeared on the djinns cheeks at his own words, ocher eyes darting sideways.

"I haven't the slightest clue." Sinbad replied, the right side of his mouth slightly quirking upwards at Focalor's usually brazen aura faltering slightly at the thought of their last heated encounter. "What I find even more curious is that you're out of your vessel, talking to me."

"I… ah, right." Focalor brought his hands to his face as if he didn't even realize he wasn't in his vessel until now. "I can't aid you in answering _that_ , I'm afraid." He said, bringing his hands back down to his sides to look at his king, shrugging sheepishly. "All I remember is feeling a sudden surge of strong emotion and… now, here I am?"

"Interesting. I wonder…" Sinbad glanced towards the ceiling in thought. "I suppose… maybe there could be ways of bringing a djinn out that are independent of a magi's touch or a rukh surplus?"

"There _has_ to be if I'm sitting in front of you, right?" Focalor gave his king a lopsided grin, moving to sit beside him. "Maybe… maybe it's you?"

"Me?"

"Us, more accurately. Our bond."

"Oh." Sinbad’s eyes widened at the possibility. Could a human really summon a djinn in this world if the bond between them alone is strong enough? Ernest enough?

“Maybe.” Sinbad said, finding a small smile worm its way onto his face. If that was true, Sinbad felt a warmth bloom inside him knowing he and Focalor managed to forge something stronger, maybe even _completely different_ than a usual link between king and djinn.

Tuned in better now than ever before to his king’s mannerisms and body language, Focalor found himself sharing Sinbad’s warmth and smile.

Silence followed their exchange of words, and it was slightly awkward; neither one knew what to do with the knowledge this newfound hypothesis alluded to. 

Focalor sat next to Sinbad, feeling the warmed marble beneath his form. He grasped at it with his very tangible fingers. He didn’t feel like he’d dissipate back into his vessel anytime soon, still being able to feel his king’s aura of potently glowing positivity. He couldn’t help but ask.

“What made you so happy?” Focalor turned to look at his king, eyes swirling with curiosity. Although Focalor could easily recognize the emotion that brought him forth, he did not know what thoughts had triggered it.

A light blush tinged Sinbad’s cheeks and nose, throwing a sideways glance at the djinn. “As if you couldn’t tell. You felt it didn’t you?”

“The emotion, yes. I may be immortal, but mind-reading is something no djinn can do… I think. Well, not me at least.” Focalor drummed his fingers against his knees, unsure as to where this sudden burst of shyness came from that made him ramble slightly. “I felt the happiness, but… _what_ made you so happy, Sin?” He leaned forwards in his eagerness.

Sinbad only recoiled by an inch, but it did not slip past the djinn, who immediately backed off in turn and raised his hands.

“Sorry.” Focalor looked down at the water apologetically. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. It’s just… I can’t think of a time since I’ve known you that you felt _this_ happy.” Focalor emitted a light chuckle, resting his hands back on his knees.

Ever since the word escaped Focalor’s mouth, Sinbad’s mind was in just as much of a haze as the air within the bath house.

**_Happy._**

Is that what Focalor had felt?

Sinbad knew he had been feeling _something_ positive when recalling the memory of that night, but… he didn’t know what to expect from Focalor when he told him the precise emotion he had sensed. 

Sighing heavily, Sinbad moved to cradle his head between his hands. 

Had it been that long? Maybe longer since he had felt genuine, full, bubbling happiness? Now that there was nothing to disrupt his mind, as Focalor sat patiently awaiting his king’s answer, Sinbad shook his head to himself. No. It was far before he had met Focalor, he thinks. A trail of small pieces of himself dropping to the seas and lands he traveled to never be retrieved. And now that he had what he set out to gain, what was it? 

What was it, damn it?

What was it that held a phantom grip on his spine and heart all these years preventing him from feeling how he felt just a moment ago when recalling that night with Focalor?

The curse? No. Thinking back, he remembers feeling an apparition of a weight in his very core before the curse touched him.

_Damn. **That** long?_

So why now? What was it about that memory in particular?

Hands gently placed themselves on Sinbad’s shoulders, shattering the cocoon of frustration he had been forming around himself.

Focalor’s ochre eyes looked at him with concern infused with a small humorous perk. “Will it forever be up to me to save you from yourself?”

Unbeknownst to the wind djinn, that question held a weight of its own that settled on Sinbad, replacing the strain of the racing questions he’d been asking himself seconds ago. It weighed him down with a possibility that frightened him as much as it frustrated him.

“Maybe.” Sinbad weakly replied, his voice almost a whisper.

_Because somehow, without you, I may have fallen of my own accord long ago._

Each time Sinbad had to wrestle with himself in the form of violent spasm episodes, it was Focalor who he heard in his head, telling him to grasp onto his aura and use it to pull himself out and back to the world of the living.

Shortly after Focalor had genuinely recognized Sinbad as his king, the human’s body was cursed. _What if Focalor hadn't agreed to follow him?_ Would Baal or Valefor, his first and second djinns, do anything to provide the comfort Focalor did without question? Or would they have watched him descend into self-induced madness and depravity, bowing their heads in shame?

**_Just a fallen king._**

Sinbad didn’t have the answer to that and he most certainly would never opt to ask either what they would have done in fear of the answer. Because no one else lifted a finger to help bring him back from the brink of hopelessness in the way Focalor had done—both before and after the curse. And maybe thinking this way is selfish, as all of the others—his loyal eight generals—are not otherworldly beings. He’s more than grateful for Jafar’s continued faith and support, but no mortal could latch onto his consciousness and draw him away from the dark like a djinn or magi could—like **Focalor** could.

And that was his answer. It must be. He couldn’t think of any other. 

When Focalor kissed him back as fervorously that night, the air around his mind cleared in a way it hadn’t before. _It was more than a press of lips_. When Sinbad remembered that night, he recalled feeling elated from more than bodily contact. It had felt like a binding seal between two souls through it all. It was the end result of Sinbad’s journey and Focalor’s trust and belief and undying loyalty in the man.

Trust and belief and loyalty… and… 

He feels crippled by that same phantom hand just now, and for once, Sinbad felt how truly devastating the effects were. How he felt he’d been struggling with something for as long as he could remember, yet cannot see it’s face.

He trusts and believes in Focalor just as much. It’s why he felt the happiness the djinn told him he sensed within his vessel. 

_He craves that now._

If there was ever a time he didn’t feel those haunting hands tearing at his core, it was _that night_. No other entity or person or thought. Just him and the one person he felt he could bear his very soul to, and that person enveloping him completely. When Foclaor’s arms had been around him, his body pressed so close to Sinbad, the man had been sure he could feel Focalor’s heartbeat.

_Oh, he craves that **right now.**_

_Why_ , then, is it hard to tell Focalor what ails him if he’s already admitted it to himself?

Why did those bastard hands have to hold him back from something he wished he had long ago and is right in front of him now but he can’t just reach out and **take it.**

Why is he _only now_ getting the feeling that those hands are not a phantom black, but tanned and calloused like his own?


	2. Say Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sinbad arrives at a conclusion of how Focalor makes him feel, and he's surprised he could recognize the feeling after going years without it.

Unaware of the half-hour that had gone by, Sinbad sat there in the bathing pool leaning against Focalor. The djinn, sitting motionless in the lukewarm water along with his king, wished now more than ever that he _**could**_ read minds. 

It was like every time Sinbad drifted away within himself, he sailed out further and further. 

With deep sorrow, Focalor knew it wasn’t a matter of ‘if’, but _when_ Sinbad would sail off to a distance he couldn’t retrace—couldn’t come back from—unless nothing was done.

Since the first episode of depravity spasms, Focalor vowed to keep his king in a positive light about himself. The djinn has always told him he could never truly fall into depravity, waving the possibility away as invalid—not worth the time to even consider. However, if Sinbad’s currently shaking form now leaning heavily against him is anything to go by, he could tell without a doubt his king **has been** considering it for a long, long time. 

It frightened them both, Focalor knew.

But there had to be _something._

Something neither of them were acknowledging or seeing clearly.

If Sinbad rescued Jafar from falling into depravity, surely _a djinn and a king_ could think of a way out.

And if Sinbad’s current face could speak, it would tell Focalor that he’s **_trying_**. Trying to figure it out—figure out what they’re both blind to. They _must_ be averting their eyes from a possible remedy. Yamuraiha herself was head of aiding Sindria’s king in the quest to find a cure, and as of now, she’s pressed to either dig deeper or deliver an _ultimatum_ —the latter of which she refused to do until certain that magician magic couldn’t help.

They were both grateful for her persistence, but at the same time, they knew something greater was needed.

Focalor watched his king’s expression morph from determined to think of an answer to utter hopelessness, his back and shoulder muscles tensing up. 

And **that** , the djinn decided, is enough.

Let it wait for when _the sun is in the sky_ for his king’s mind to suck him into depression, at least.

“Sin. Mulling over this won’t help you.” Focalor said, moving to better embrace his king, who meekly reached for his djinn in turn.

“But—”

“Stop.” Focalor gently scolded. “This is exactly what preceded your past episodes.”

“Focalor, if I don’t try to think of what we could possibly be overlooking—”

Ok. The djinn knew it may not have been the best decision in the present tension-filled atmosphere, but if _words_ couldn’t ground his king, he didn’t know of any other way than _this_.

Sinbad certainly wasn’t expecting Focalor to kiss him in this moment of confusion and frustration and hopelessness, tensing slightly at the sudden press of lips against his own. However, as all other encounters like this one went, Focalor never failed to exercise a spell on his king with every kiss, magically whisking away the strain in both body and mind.

It was soft and slow, similar to the time when Focalor kissed Sinbad just before he left the palanquin outside the Reim Empire’s palace gates. And it left the King of Sindria just as lightheaded.

But when Focalor pulled away, his soul sank at the look in Sinbad’s eyes, his kiss, for the first time ever, not having the desired effect Focalor had hoped for. Fierce gold muddled into a dull bronze, infected with a tiredness running deeper than ever, it seems. 

Dear Solomon, Focalor really, _really_ wished he could read minds.

“Listen to me.” The wind djinn said in as much of a low, soothing tone as he could muster. Focalor cupped the sides of his king’s face, trailing the pad of his thumb slowly over Sinbad’s bottom lip just as he did in Reim. “If it _is_ forever up to me to save you from yourself, so be it.”

A small flicker of gold flashed across his king’s gaze at those words, so Focalor continued.

“I promised to take care of you, didn’t I? As far as I’m concerned, that promise extends to _all_ aspects of care. Not just patching up bloody wounds, but helping you find clarity. Peace. You deserve that more than anyone, even if _you_ don’t think so. You are more deserving of peace of mind than any other. What you’ve accomplished by forging Sindria with your iron will… it’s almost as if you care for everyone else _but_ yourself.”

“No. _**I don’t**_.” Sinbad’s sharp, hateful tone surprised Focalor given the restless posture his king’s body had taken on—hunched slightly, leaning to one side. “I have gotten _devious_. Do you know what Jafar thinks of me, Focalor? He thinks I’m terrifying. _Terrifying!_ Not only devious, but _dangerous!”_

The water around them sloshed in small choppy waves as Sinbad stood in a sudden bout of returned frustration that is quickly morphing into rage—a state Sinbad’s finding himself in more and more these days.

“I bound _lives_ to me, did you know?! Like a predator luring its prey into a false sense of security! Like the bastard kings rubbing their hands together in greed I vowed to make a stand against.”

“Sin—” Focalor stood up along with his king, hands up, attempting to get Sinbad to calm himself. 

**_At this rate, he would be prone to another episode._ **

“How could anyone _ever_ hold so much as an _ounce_ of faith in me if all I do is abuse their trust?! Putting on the mask of ‘for the good of the country’, or ‘for the good of the world’ to keep them keen?”

**_Not good._**

When Sinbad got to the point of spouting every last thing about himself he loathed, it was only a matter of minutes before he could fall unconscious with spasms of dark rukh, the curse merciless in plundering any vulnerable moment.

**_This needs to stop now._ **

"How could I possibly have gotten to be such a conniving, _sly, **self-centered—"**_

**SMACK**

The sharp sound rang loud within the bathhouse, all other noises—rippling water, swaying plants just outside—chopped from the air.

Sinbad stood still in the position that Focalor's forceful hand threw him into. And then he slowly raised a hand to feel the hot, red finger marks left on impact. Swiveling back around, the look in Sinbad's eyes when he faced his djinn again is devoid of anything but utter shock. Never, not in a million decades, would Sinbad have thought one of his own djinn's would lay a hand on him in a violent manner.

But, as proven before on multiple occasions, Focalor is a special case.

No words escaped Sinbad as he opened his mouth, trying to think of something, anything, to say.

Should he _reprimand_ Focalor? Reprimand him for daring to slap the king he swore to follow? No. Sinbad is sure that if he even attempted that, Focalor will be ready with a counter remark—rightfully so, his king on the verge of being consumed by another episode.

If anything, Sinbad should be thanking him. And yet, he still can't find words.

And then Focalor shot in front of his king within a second to plunge them both into a kiss far more firm and demanding than the last.

Focalor wanted to smack himself just as hard, if not harder, than he delivered to his king for taking this route a second time. But the wind djinn _truthfully_ didn’t know of another way to get his intentions across. In fact, Focalor was about to draw back and apologize for his brash actions… if it weren’t for the fact that Sinbad actually _relaxed_ against him, unlike the first out-of-place kiss they shared in the bathhouse this evening.

Tanned, slightly calloused hands gingerly reached up to slide down blue shoulders. The sigh from his king is a welcome relief to Focalor. _Somehow_ , Sinbad didn’t feel the need to punish him for the perhaps slightly-too-hard smack to the face.

The kiss slowed to a delicate pace, lips tenderly sliding against one another. Their encounter within that red palanquin flashed inside the djinn's mind, and Focalor attempted to mimic the gentle touches they had shared back then. He brought his hands up to cup Sin’s face, feeling the soft skin of his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

_By the wisdom of Solomon, he’s so **soft.**_

Focalor kneeled, motioning for his king to sit back down in the bathing pool on his lap. The water wasn’t steaming hot anymore, but it still smelled wonderful from the herbs and flower petals infused in it. The lovely scent had transferred to Sinbad’s hair and skin as a result of the man soaking in the rosey water for so long. Focalor breathed it in with a greedy sigh.

The wind djinn still held his king’s face with a gentleness one wouldn’t think an immortal being capable of possessing.

And normally, they’d be right.

Focalor is as reckless and unpredictable as his combat element—wind. Disruptive, harsh, biting. A destructive catalyst. Only with Sinbad has Focalor ever felt himself behave more like an idle spring breeze, gleefully flowing in the present moment.

Only with Sinbad has he felt a stillness so _beautiful._

His centuries-old heart sings while holding Sinbad so close in the now.

**_Right now._ **

Curse be damned. The **_world_** be damned.

Focalor is with the only being he has genuinely cared for in a very, _very_ long time. If he’s honest with himself, he couldn’t recall the name of a single long-lasting lover he had back in Alma Tara. The faces, eye color, hair color… they’re lost to time. It’s been longer than any being has the right to exist for, and yet here he is. Focalor assumed eternity would be watching human after human fall to the whims of power and greed and then their eventual deaths within the bowls of his dungeon. 

Death—surrounded by it forever. 

And then Sinbad _**burst**_ through the ceiling of his dungeon’s hearth and told him _exactly_ how he would forge something **more**. Something _beautiful_ and _safe_. And gods, fate be damned, curse be damned, because Focalor will savor and protect the brilliant shining sun named Sinbad for as long as he can.

_Fear_ gripped him then. 

_Fear_ of all this going away should they fail in their quest to cure the curse. Focalor’s arms wrapped around his king’s, drawing Sinbad into him fully, bodies pressed as close as they could be. Sorrow followed fear, and Focalor couldn’t name the root cause. 

The King of Sindria has officially been rendered speechless for the longest he’s ever been. When Focalor had pulled him back down into the bathing pool, he didn’t know what to expect. Would Focalor be angry with him for almost losing track of himself _again_ only for the djinn to have to pull him out? 

_But then, Focalor just… held him. He held him through the silence._

The moment they shared near the end of the palanquin ride in Reim flickered in his mind. Sinbad thought of the way Fcoalor had looked at him, had kissed him. That same little special something that sparked back then felt like it has just been _fully ignited_ now. 

Since that palanquin ride, much like physical winds, the direction of **_them_** had changed. Even when remembering their first-ever kiss—warm bodies pressed against the ice-cold balcony railing of Sinbad’s room years ago when Sindria was young—Sinbad couldn’t say this was anywhere near the same. That kiss, while delightful, was coy in nature, only a surface level thing. Their time within that palanquin, Sinbad feels, had been another shift. And then another when Focalor had been given the consent to drink his king dry of blood. 

Now, right here, Sinbad feels a similar shift occurring and for the first time since his youth, he didn’t know what would come next. 

While sailing the seas as a merchant was fun, riding the waves in search of new people to meet and trade posts to establish, he always had a destination—a **_goal_** that all of his efforts were put towards. 

There is no goal to _this_ , is there? This _thing_ between Focalor and himself? 

There’s putting an end to his curse, sure. But that didn’t technically require… _this_ ; being held as tenderly as a heart-broken maiden in strong, comforting arms—being kissed as if he’s made of priceless paper-thin blown glass. 

What’s the goal in _that?_

But when Focalor drew back after what seemed like a century had passed, Sinbad saw something he never had before housed within those fierce ochre eyes. The king couldn’t name it so much as recognize it as a feeling. 

Perhaps Focalor himself didn’t know. 

Whatever the nameless flicker may be, Sinbad could deduce one thing from it. 

**_Safety._**

In this quietness of the bathhouse away from the world in his djinn’s arms, he felt _safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crying by myself and the 1% of the Magi fandom that ships these two, but oh well, what's fanfic supposed to make you do, sMILE?


	3. All Of Us

The quiet is more palpable now, filled with hesitation on both ends. 

Focalor couldn’t imagine the whirlwind of thoughts and questions his king must be experiencing, and he admits he’s no better off. 

A lot more has happened for them on this night than during any other moment they have spent together, which is neither good nor bad, but instead possesses an air of melancholy. 

A lot hung unanswered: how can Sinbad be seated upon Focalor’s solid form without a rukh surplus or the aid of a magi’s power? How else could the djinn be fully materialized? What were they missing with regard to Sin’s curse? Neither knew.

Focalor, as powerful and immortal as he is, felt helpless at the sadness and frustration rolling off of his king in waves. He did not have the answers. He did not have the cure to his king’s curse.

But fates be damned if he wouldn’t try to do _something_ to help alleviate Sinbad of his _current_ state of mind.

“I would never have bowed to a self-centered king.” Focalor’s voice broke through the silent air, drawing all Sinbad’s attention to his djinn’s saddened face.

“I would have never followed a self-centered king into battle…” Focalor drew in right next to Sinbad’s ear. “Much less would have _fucked_ one.”

A small shiver ran from the top to bottom of Sinbad’s spine at the memories of all their previous couplings, Focalor’s breath tickling the hair hanging loosely by his ear. 

“You are wonderful, Sin—to your people, to your friends, to **_me_**. You’d throw yourself in the mouth of danger if it meant that one more innocent life would be kept from an early death.” Blue hands gripped possessively at Sinbad’s hips, the king moving to lean his head against the crook of his djinn’s shoulder.

“ ** _Why_** , then?” Focalor’s question sounded more like a plea, filled with an amount of desperation Sinbad has never heard from his djinn before. _“Why do you think of yourself that way?”_

The wind djinn felt a certain way right then. He’s… **frustrated** at his king. Frustrated that such an amazing man in every sense of the word would think anything but of himself.

Sinbad pressed a soft kiss to the nape of Focalor's neck in a small apology. It is a loaded question to say the least. _Did_ he truly think of himself like that? Did Jafar’s honest opinion get to him on the account that the ex-assassin is his oldest friend and knows him best? _No_. He won’t blame Jafar in this. Only _he_ is responsible for his own self-loathing. His own state of mind…

**_…his own curse._**

“I’m _sorry_.” Is all the king could muster, because right now, he really _didn’t_ know why.

Focalor tensed under Sinbad’s weight, hands tightening ever so slightly at their place on his hips. But he said nothing.

Sinbad feared he said something to upset his djinn when the hands gripping his hips suddenly released their hold, coming up to soothingly thread through damp violet hair.

Focalor continued this for a while before moving and gesturing for Sinbad to sit upright. Ochre eyes, normally housing a brilliant fierce aura, are now dulled as they gazed up at their candidate. But Sinbad didn’t feel hopelessness emanating from them. Only continued, warm, soft **_safety_**.

Sinbad saw Focalor’s mouth twitch slightly, as if he, too, is searching for the right words.

_Maybe there aren’t any **right** words_, Sinbad thought then.

_Maybe there are just **our** words. The ones we speak. The ones we breath._

And so, Sinbad took a breath, and spoke.

_“I’m sorry.”_ He repeated, cupping his djinn’s face in his hands as Focalor had done twice before. The action ignited a small flame in those dark eyes that sent Sinbad’s soul soaring. 

It was then, half submerged in the palace bathhouse during what is most likely an ungodly hour in the evening, that Sinbad felt yet another shift for the second time tonight—another change—between him and his djinn. And he was all but too tired to do anything with that information then go with it.

“I want to figure this out—with you—and be myself again, free of the curse. It’s just… sometimes, I’m—I’m afraid. Afraid of falling to the level of bastard kings who rain death on my world. I guess… I think about that fear too much. Of having to keep myself from drowning in all the temptations that have gripped and crushed and molded kings into monsters. So much so that… I fear I am perhaps subconsciously becoming one—a monster.”

Sinbad shook his head, the memories of so many battles plaguing his thoughts—of lost soldiers throwing themselves to death at the whim of a crown that shone no brighter than the dull soul of the person wearing it.

_I should tell him how I feel. He has the right to know._

Sinbad leaned in to place another small, soft kiss on his djinn’s forehead, drawing away with an adoring smile. “But then, I remember how I always feel with you—a person that makes me feel a safety I haven’t felt since—since…” A hot flash of tears threatened to spill over Sinbad’s cheeks, the memories suddenly seeming like yesterday’s clearest sky. “I haven’t felt this safe since both my parents were alive and well.”

Focalor stilled, not even the water around his form rippled to indicate motion.

_That’s right_. How could he have forgotten?

His king’s loving family life ended _far sooner_ than it should have.

Any sense of security gained from that life evaporated as soon as Sinbad set out from his home village. The people he met along the way in his journeys are family to a degree, sure, but nothing could truly substitute the maternal warmth of a loving mother or the proud smiles from a guiding father.

He doesn’t remember much of anything from his life in Alma Tarran, but his mind must have chosen to grip firmly onto the emotions from his earliest mortal years. Family is the foundation of one's entire soul—their personality, thoughts, and opinions are shaped first and foremost by the beings responsible for bringing them into the world.

Focalor knows this much, and for that reason, he finds himself breaking down inside at Sinbad’s words. 

The fact that his king feels almost if not just as safe with him as he did as a child with his mother and father… it’s far too heavy.

The weight crushed him.

Focalor watched his king lift a hand up to wipe a few tears from his cool blue face.

When did he start crying? 

He didn’t think he could once Solomon forged him into a djinn.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to suddenly drop that on you.” Sinbad sheepishly looked to the side. “But… it’s the truth. I feel completely safe for the first time in a long time with you, Focalor.”

The wind djinn remained silent, about a minute passing between the two, Sinbad gently wiping away beads of saltwater as they rolled down Focalor’s cheeks. 

**_“I never knew.”_** Foclaor said after a little while. And Sinbad’s heart was then plundered with tremors at how broken his djinn sounds. “Sin… I never knew you felt so… unsafe—abandoned. _Gods_ , I never knew.”

The dread in Focalor’s tone is something Sinbad hasn’t _ever_ heard from the normally proud ethereal being.

“That’s right. You didn’t… Jafar didn’t… _no one_ did—no one _does_ until now.”

**_“Why?”_** Focalor wrapped his arms tightly around his king as if he’d slip away at any moment. “You were _hurting_ , Sin. This _entire time_ you’ve been hurting!”

Sinbad couldn’t help the gentle smile on his lips from forming. Through all the dismay, he’s grateful beyond belief that someone feels this deeply for him.

“And yet, the only time I’ve felt ready to tell someone is now.” Sinbad said calmly, pressing a kiss, this time, to the bridge of his djinn’s nose. “Because you listen. You respect my position, sure. But you… you—”

“ **I care!** So what? Many do! You could have—”

“ _No_. I couldn’t have. I’m a king, Focalor, I can’t just go around to my generals spouting—”

“That shouldn’t matter to _anyone_ who _truly cares_ for you!” Focalor sobbed into his king’s silky hair. “I’m immortal and even I couldn’t fathom going forever without having someone—anyone—to confide in. You could have told someone! Why didn’t you? It’s not fair. Why couldn’t any of them have—”

“It’s not anyone’s fault but my own.”

“ _You’re wrong!_ I…” Focalor stopped, unable to conjure more words. His form sagged, leaning against his king’s. What was he really trying to say? He’s upset Sinbad has gone so long without someone he could talk to, but... _does he even have a right to be_? 

Focalor had met Sinbad only _recently_ compared to the other’s. Baal and Valefor have known him much longer; why should _he_ get to suddenly scream and shout about something Sinbad’s been internally whaling in agony from for years?

Why should Focalor get to be the one Sinbad feels safe with when he couldn’t have been there for him all his life? How can Focalor even begin to fill that void his parents left behind when they died? 

How come every time Sinbad looks at him, Focalor feels like he’s more than a cold immortal djinn—more than a mere asset to his king?

Focalor, much to his own embarrassment, must be filtering through more emotions on his face now than he has in this and his past life combined if Sinbad’s next words are anything to go by.

“Wasn’t it you who told me mulling over something isn’t going to help?” Sinbad said calmly.

His golden eyes. Gods, they had enough light in them to illuminate the moon, even in this less-than-perfect moment, Focalor thought.

“Sin—”

“I want you.”

“I—wha?” Focalor shook his head, surprised his king would call for something such as that at a time like this. 

And then, Sinbad giggled at his djinn’s expression, which quickly morphed into a heartfelt laugh. “You silly bird. Not like that—not right now at least.”

“Ah.” The wind djinn wanted to smack himself yet again for making such an assumption. “Then… how do you mean?”

Sinbad’s golden gaze shifted very quickly from bemused to something else—something new. He is still smiling, which Focalor is grateful for after everything that has happened this night, but _this_ smile wasn’t so familiar. It wasn’t the coy smirk he has expressed on their more heated occasions, nor was it the teasing grin he had when idly chatting with his djinn. 

This new smile made that same feeling of “more than an asset” bloom within Focalor, and he wanted Sinbad to smile like that _every time_ he smiled from this point on.

Despite his king’s previous rebuttal, Sinbad swooped down close and kissed Focalor sweetly on the lips. 

And all the djinn could do is surrender to the soft, malleable texture of those unfairly smooth lips. 

They swayed slightly, making no attempts at disrupting the slow rhythm of appreciating one another’s presence.

Focalor didn’t even notice when his king pulled back and cupped his face in both hands.

“I meant that… I want **_you_** , Focalor. _All_ of you, and in _every_ way. If I have that, well… I’ll know that, cursed or not, I’ll always have someone looking out for me—someone I can confide in for worries other than those of the political or strategic spheres and feel _safe_ with. I—if you’ll give that to me… if I have _you_ , I’ll be happy.”

“Sin…” What could he say to that. How can he—but wait. “Sin, you _already_ have me. I’m always at your side as your loyal djinn. I swore, didn’t I? To take care of you?”

“Yes. Yes, you did. I’m grateful. And this may be selfish of me, but, Focalor, I meant _more_ than that.”

“More than—”

“Be mine.”

Sinbad kissed him again, languid and appreciative.

“Be my djinn, my safe place, my love, and I’ll promise _every ounce_ of me will be yours.”

The promise his king just spoke of shone as bright in those brilliant golden eyes, and Focalor found his own eyes bubbling with more tears, except these ones weren’t born from frustration or sorrow.

Focalor abandoned all hope of a personal connection of any kind once they had lost Alma Taran. From the moment his dungeon had been raised, he felt enraged at being forcefully removed from the quiet and the dark. He lost all he had, and now, he must be doomed to an immortal life of watching misguided soul after misguided soul lunge themselves at a power they’ve never had any hope of achieving. He watched death, and it triggered memories of his friends dying beside him centuries long forgotten.

To think, just when he had been contemplating the worst, the Sun itself burst through his dungeon doors in the form of a bright-eyed human and demanded he rise up—rise above the phantoms and ghosts, to not let them define your existence whether you live forever or only for a decade.

Rise up and do something about it.

_Follow me, and I **swear** to you Focalor, you needn't suffer the sight of death ever again._

Those had been his candidate’s words all those years ago, and now, with the same Sun—the same world-class singularity—looking at him with a second fierce promise and just as much determination to keep it… 

“I want to be as much as I can for you.” Focalor said, his voice nearly a whisper under the warm weight of dedication in his king’s eyes. “I want to be _everything_ for you. I owe you so much, Sin. I owe you the world for what you did the day you conquered my dungeon.” 

“Focalor. You’ve already—”

“The curse—how can I be everything for you if I can’t even—”

“We’ll find a way.”

“Sin—”

“I told you.” Sinbad’s tone was firm as if he were scolding a child. “I said I want **you.”** He said, and then, Sinbad rose up from the now cold bath water and extended a warm, inviting hand to his djinn. “Give me that, and you’ll have given me everything.”

Focalor is still battling within himself. But, his king’s words struck a chord. 

He wasn’t _asking_ anything of him. 

Sinbad has never asked Focalor for anything, other than to lend him his power when needed. And now, even though his king could employ _each one of his djinns_ in helping him find a cure, he didn’t. If Focalor knew Sin, he’s sure his king saw it as an abuse of a djinn’s power. Their bond solidifies when a djinn agrees to lend a human power, thus making them their king’s candidate—nothing more is agreed upon. 

But Focalor _wanted_ to do more. He wants to solve each and every woe his king has. 

Focalor wants to give Sinbad peace. He wants to give Sinbad a cure for his curse. Focalor wants to give Sinbad everything, yet all his king wants is **_him._**

Taking Sinbad’s hand, Focalor rose (a tad ungracefully) from the cold water as well. 

A thousand worries are plaguing Focalor’s mind, and before he could voice any, his king drew him in close for a delicate kiss, but it was far from void of the passion Sinbad normally kissed him with. Reassuring, soft, it made Focalor’s centuries-old heart feel revived anew, and for a split second, he felt more vulnerable and human than he ever had in Alma Taran. And in the arms of the Sun— _his_ Sun—it feels beautiful. 

More tears escaped Focalor when he asked, “All you want is me?” 

“Yes.” Sinbad said without hesitation, hellbent on getting it through to his djinn that he needn’t do more than just ** _be._** “You. Only you.” 

“I—then… _yes_.” Focalor’s whole body was slightly shaking, the prospect of his mere existence being enough for his king overwhelmingly relieving and new. “If all you want is me, I’m yours, Sin.” 

Sinbad beamed at his djinn. “And I, yours.” He said, and then moved to tightly embrace him, glad that Focalor doesn’t feel the need to prattle on about how he wishes this or wishes that anymore. “Everything’s going to work itself out, Focalor. Now that I do have you, I’ve never been more sure of that.” 

“And I was never certain I’d find joy in life again until you rudely kicked down my dungeon doors.” Focalor joked, but only in so much, for he meant every word of that statement. 

Sinbad chuckled as he pulled away from the hug, looking at his djinn with that familiar boyish amusement Focalor adored about him. “They were _bolted_ to the wall. How else did you expect me to get them open?” 

Grateful for the lightened atmosphere, Focalor raised a hand to playfully pinch his king’s cheek. “Any other way that didn’t involve brute force would have been appreciated. I felt it all the way down in my dungeon’s hearth! You scared me half to death!” 

“...You’re imm—” 

“That’s no excuse.” 

“Of course not.” Sinbad laughed, backing away a step or two before lowering in a mock bow. “I humbly apologize, most honorable djinn.” 

“Well… I suppose I could grant you the relief of my forgiveness if you make it up to me.” Focalor smirked, always loving to indulge in these silly games with his king. 

“Oh?” Sinbad stood back up, a more devilish look on his face now. “And what must I do to receive your good graces?” He asked, sliding a tantalizing fingertip from Focalor’s hip to his collarbone, making the blue skin beneath it quiver. 

As much as Focalor would like to pull his king right back down into the water to show him _exactly_ how he can ‘make up for it’, it just occurred to the wind djinn that, one, Sinbad still remains unabashedly naked from his soak, and, two, he could easily catch a cold if he didn’t properly dry off and redress. 

“You can start by getting out of the bath and into some warm clothes.” Focalor said, ruffling his king’s damp hair. “Can’t have the mighty King of Sindria falling victim to the sniffles, can we?” 

“Ah! Oh gods.” As if a light switch went on in his head, Sinbad looked to his hands, feet, arm, legs, and then sighed in disappointment. “Focalor, I’m more wrinkled than a dried date!” 

The wind djinn couldn’t help but laugh out loud. And, apparently agreeing with him that a good hearty laugh is sorely warranted, his mind kept him laughing at his king’s ordeal. 

“Hey, you stupid bird! This is _not_ funny!” 

“Oh, _but it is!”_

“It will take _days_ for these wrinkles to fade! I have a meeting with my generals tomorrow! _Tomorrow_ , Focalor!” 

“My poor poor king better hurry up to his chambers and catch what little beauty sleep he can before then, shouldn’t he?” Focalor mused, watching as Sinbad hastily dried off and threw on the spare change of clothes he brought with him. 

In his rush, he struggled to put back on his jewelry as well as two or three metal vessels, including Focalor’s silver bangle. 

“Allow me.” Focalor said, the sight of his king struggling to redress like a child becoming too much for his stomach muscles to bare. 

He carefully snapped all his king’s gold, silver, and jewels back in place, finishing with his own metal vessel, which then, upon thoughtfully glancing it over, prompted a realization in Focalor’s mind— 

“So… what did make you feel so happy?” 

“Mm?” Sinbad inquired while fixing his hat in place. 

“That potent surge of happiness—the one I was able to feel from within my vessel—what caused it?” 

Sinbad thought back to hours before and then offered an effortless smile to his djinn. “Isn’t that obvious after tonight?” 

Focalor only pondered his king’s response for a second, and then blushed profusely. He sheepishly pointed a finger at himself. 

“...me?” 

“You guessed it.” Sinbad said with an impish grin. “More specifically, the first time I felt compelled to kiss your gorgeous face.” He chuckled, and then stepped forward, hinting at he’d very well do it right now if that’s what Focalor wanted. 

The wind djinn’s blush only deepened, his nose and ears burning at how unbelievable his king was. “You were _that_ happy? At—at remembering that night… with me?” 

“How can I not be? You kissed back as if to devour me without a second thought!” 

“I—hey! It’s not like I couldn’t have! Do you _know_ how soft your lips are?” 

Their good-humored banter continued for a few moments more, Focalor’s bashfulness on full display for his king to poke fun at. 

But deep down, Focalor was beyond elated that his king could glean so much joy at the simple memory of their first kiss. And then… when he had felt it from within his metal vessel—when he’d felt the sheer power of that emotion radiate from his king… 

Maybe that’s it? That’s how Focalor could be standing here with a solid form without the excess rukh from a magi or a storm: the energy supplied solely from his king through their (now beyond intensified after tonight) bond? Focalor didn’t know for certain. The only way to cement his hypothesis as a fact is to test this again. 

“Sin. Before I return to my vessel, I want to ask something of you. It may help us figure out how I’m able to stand in front of you now.” 

“Ah—yes! That. What is it?” 

“It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, or for a while—whenever you get the chance. Next time you’re unoccupied, I want you to conjure that memory again. I want you to focus on that happiness as much as you can when you do. Maybe… maybe the reason why I’m here is because of—” 

“—our bond, like you said before.” Sinbad recalled, slowly nodding in agreement. “I will. Could you imagine?” His features suddenly lit up with awe. “If that is the case, I mean? I could summon you, Baal, Valefor… the lot of you, whenever I—” 

“Not so fast.” Focalor cut in. “The memory you thought of—that happiness—it is tied to me and me alone. Unless you have just as happy of a memory with the others, I don’t believe it will work.” 

“I—ah, yes. I suppose that makes sense.” Sinbad sheepishly ruffled his hair. “Ok, just you then. I’ll get on it soon as I have free time away from my _kingly duties_.” 

“You better.” Focalor teasingly remarked, pressing a small kiss to his king’s cheek. “Otherwise I’ll think you're being neglectful.” 

Sinbad gasped, placing a hand over his heart, pretending to be fractured at the statement. “I wouldn’t dare think of such a thing.” He said, and then laughed as he kissed his djinn right back. 

“I’ll hold you to that, Sin.” Focalor said. His legs began to shimmer before forging into a smoky tail that began circling around his metal vessel on Sinabd’s wrist. The pull of the vessel drew him closer to his king, and Focalor milked one last kiss to his king’s lips before saying, “Go get your beauty sleep.” 

And then, like that, Focalor’s physical form was gone, leaving Sinbad alone in a very empty bathhouse. 

But was it truly empty? 

Sinbad felt the weight of all their words spoken throughout the night hang in the air above him. It’s almost suffocating, but not in a bad way. Their conversation was one Sinbad is elated that they had, the heavy words in the air floating around him—embracing him like a warm blanket. 

_Everything will work itself out._ Sinbad's own words rang in his head like a small, soft, pleasant, bell. 

When he finally emerged from the bathhouse, he noticed the sky had become tinted with a gentle layer of purple, indicating that the sun wasn’t far from rising. 

_Good gods, I’ll be lucky if I’m able to **speak**_ much less debate at tomorrow’s meeting, Sinbad thought to himself. 

Yet, at the same time, he has a feeling that, even if sleep fails to overtake him tonight, his mind now has a clarity and calmness he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. 

Focalor’s bangle warmly encompassed his wrist. He felt the wind djinn’s energy stirring around and around within the minerals that made up the piece of jewelry, as if he was wearing a mini storm. 

That’s definitely new. 

Sinbad could only ever feel Focalor’s energy emit from the silver bangle when he summoned the immortal being to dwell within him. Now, he can feel it constantly. 

Perhaps Focalor’s hypothesis isn’t too far off. Sinbad was then overcome with excitement at the prospect of testing this theory the second he had a free moment. 

By the time he made it back to his quarters, the sky had turned from light purple to a dull honey color, signaling the rapid approach of dawn.

His bed, thankfully, is made of some of the best materials one can acquire for a mattress. It was effortless to sink into its plushness (never skimp on your bed or your shoes, because if you’re not in one you’re in the other, Sinbad has always believed). 

Waking up after only two to three hours of sleep had been just about as pleasant as Sinbad had thought it would be. However, as he dressed in his formal regalia for the day’s activities, he found that sense of clarity within his mind hadn’t vanished from the previous night, and neither had the warm pulses of energy from Focalor’s metal vessel. 

Actually, they had only grown more and more since Focalor had retreated. The energy was so strong that Sinbad felt as if Focalor was right there with him as he walked down the palace halls to meet with his generals. 

And that energy remained with him throughout the rest of the day, moving from his wrist to his arm and then eventually feeling like Focalor himself was hugging him, resting his head on his king’s shoulder. 

It’s like Focalor never left. 

And in the weeks that followed, Sinbad never felt more grateful; having a loyal, adoring presence by his side constantly sending reassuring, soft, safe energy to him 24/7 is what the King of Sindria never knew he needed. 

The few times he’d checked to see no one was around before pressing a kiss to Focalor’s vessel, he had been met with a small burst of happiness that wafted up to encircle Sinbad’s face, like it were Focalor’s own hands coming up to hold his king. 

And now that a full month of these little moments have passed, Sinbad had many happy thoughts in his mind regarding the wind djinn. He is certain, if Focalor’s guess is correct about summoning him without the need of a magi’s power or excess rukh, that he can bring forth Focalor with only so much as a thought. 

The doors clicked shut to his chambers, and Sinbad strode over to his vanity and began taking off and gently placing aside every metal vessel save for Focalor’s. 

He pondered where to position himself so he can best relax to let his mind truly wander without strain. 

In the end, Sinbad decided on laying flat on his mattress as the best option. 

He leaned back, adjusting his head on his plush pillows, and then closed his eyes. 

Blue lips smiling at him with all of the adoration in the world was the first thing he thought of. And then, ethereal ochre eyes looking at him as if he were the most precious thing on Earth. But the one that stood out to him the most is the way Focalor’s face looked when he had finally accepted that all he needed to give his king was himself. He’d never seen such relief, surprise, and joy plastered on the wind djinn’s face. 

He reveled in it—he, Sinbad, was able to deliver that to a being who has seen enough death to fill a thousand lifetimes over. 

And in turn, Focalor _did_ give himself to his king. _All of him. **Forever.**_

Sinbad focused in on that; Focalor’s tears of joy, the djinn’s complete unadulterated bliss from hearing his king’s words. He wanted to give that again and again to Focalor—the fact that so long as he is with his king, Sinbad felt he could do anything. 

The mattress dipped on both sides of Sinbad, and when he opened his eyes, he was met with both the fierce ochre eyes he’d just been remembering as well as the result of testing Focalor’s hypothesis. 

“It worked.” The wind djinn smiled, sinking down to embrace his king with a solid, warm body. “I—Sin, I can’t believe it worked.” 

Sinbad was then overcome with a sense of pride, which he didn’t initially expect himself to feel if/when he did accomplish what Focalor had proposed. 

He is proud. 

Sinbad is proud that he may be the first-ever human alive to summon a djinn out of a bond stronger than iron. 

But more importantly, and even more new of a feeling, is that he’s proud of **_them._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this addition to the "A Flickering Sun" series. Thanks for reading for those of you who have! I'm always overjoyed when I see others who ship the rare pairs I do, haha.
> 
> Feel free to scream at me about rare pairs you have in the comments lol.
> 
> More to come for this series soon! The next instalment will be far fluffier and smuttier ;) Suggestions and constructive criticism are always welcome :)


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